The Schoolmistress, and other stories eBook

Getting into the sledge, the old man spends a long
time crossing himself in the direction in which the
monastery walls make a patch of darkness in the fog.
Yasha sits beside him on the very edge of the seat
with his legs hanging over the side. His face
as before shows no sign of emotion and expresses neither
boredom nor desire. He is not glad that he is
going home, nor sorry that he has not had time to see
the sights of the city.

“Drive on!”

The cabman whips up the horse and, turning round,
begins swearing at the heavy and cumbersome luggage.

* On many railway lines, in order to
avoid accidents, it is against the regulations
to carry hay on the trains, and so live stock
are without fodder on the journey.—­Author’s
Note.

**The train destined especially for
the transport of troops is called the troop train;
when they are no troops it takes goods, and goes
more rapidly than ordinary goods train. —­Author’s
Note.

SORROW

The turner, Grigory Petrov, who had been known
for years past as a splendid craftsman, and at the
same time as the most senseless peasant in the Galtchinskoy
district, was taking his old woman to the hospital.
He had to drive over twenty miles, and it was an awful
road. A government post driver could hardly have
coped with it, much less an incompetent sluggard like
Grigory. A cutting cold wind was blowing straight
in his face. Clouds of snowflakes were whirling
round and round in all directions, so that one could
not tell whether the snow was falling from the sky
or rising from the earth. The fields, the telegraph
posts, and the forest could not be seen for the fog
of snow. And when a particularly violent gust
of wind swooped down on Grigory, even the yoke above
the horse’s head could not be seen. The
wretched, feeble little nag crawled slowly along.
It took all its strength to drag its legs out of the
snow and to tug with its head. The turner was
in a hurry. He kept restlessly hopping up and
down on the front seat and lashing the horse’s
back.

“Don’t cry, Matryona,...” he muttered.
“Have a little patience. Please God we
shall reach the hospital, and in a trice it will be
the right thing for you.... Pavel Ivanitch will
give you some little drops, or tell them to bleed
you; or maybe his honor will be pleased to rub you
with some sort of spirit—­it’ll...
draw it out of your side. Pavel Ivanitch will
do his best. He will shout and stamp about, but
he will do his best.... He is a nice gentleman,
affable, God give him health! As soon as we get
there he will dart out of his room and will begin
calling me names. ‘How? Why so?’
he will cry. ’Why did you not come at the
right time? I am not a dog to be hanging about
waiting on you devils all day. Why did you not
come in the morning? Go away! Get out of
my sight. Come again to-morrow.’ And
I shall say: ’Mr. Doctor! Pavel Ivanitch!
Your honor!’ Get on, do! plague take you, you
devil! Get on!”